On the busy, forested two-lane highway outside of Warm Springs, the speed limit signs say 55 but the trucks scream seventy. The narrow road slices through wild land, speckled with snow this time of year, surrounded by densely packed conifers and muddy winter detritus breathing. Somewhere in that wood sodden with spring, somewhere astride the paved road, a smaller sign peeks out. It’s just tall enough to spot, with that sugary, highway green background clashing gently against the evergreen landscape. The sign is predictably squarish with simple white lettering.

45TH PARALLEL

HALFWAY BETWEEN

THE EQUATOR AND NORTH POLE

You can barely grasp all the words going past—it’s these times i’d like a buddy—before you’ve crossed this invisible, mostly meaningless meridian. If there was a pull-off it was snow-covered. Just a humble sign reaching out of a gorgeous forest to lend you a fact that would be useless if not for being so utterly delightful.